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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27498088">That Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamie_Douglas/pseuds/Jamie_Douglas'>Jamie_Douglas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Outlander &amp; Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:09:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,757</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27498088</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamie_Douglas/pseuds/Jamie_Douglas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In An Echo in the Bone, Claire wakes up with Lord John Grey beside her. What exactly happened the night before, and why?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser, Claire Beauchamp/Lord John Grey, Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I will not mourn him alone tonight.” </p><p>Lord John Grey was leaning in the doorway of Claire’s—his wife’s--bedroom. His voice was low and throaty. He wore only an untucked open-necked white shirt and breeches. His normally tidy hair was an unkempt mess and a dark stubble shaded the lower half of his face. In his hand was an open bottle of wine, which he now raised to his lips, taking a long pull and then wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Claire was sprawled on her bed. She had clearly been drinking too, he noticed in some dim corner of his brain. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. How could anything matter now that Jamie was gone? </p><p>Sitting alone in his room, getting drunker and drunker, he had wept openly for his lost love, not caring a damn who else in the house might hear. The worse he’d felt, the more he’d wanted to cry out, to make everyone around him feel just as miserable. It wasn’t right that time, daily life, the business of the town or the world should go on, without Jamie Fraser in it. Grey was well practiced at hiding his true feelings. Anything else—fear, love, desire, bodily pain—he could keep tightly balled up inside. But not this… utter helplessness. A very large part of him wanted to die. As long as Jamie had been alive, John had been able to console himself, to warm himself at night with the thought that his beloved Scotsman was out there somewhere, safe and happy, knowing that his son was well cared for by a trusted friend. But William didn’t need him anymore--he was a man now. And now that John’s reasons for living had ended, what sort of man was he to be? </p><p>He pulled the door closed with a bang that roused Claire from her torpor. A blurry white form in billowy cotton floated toward him. A pale, unsteady hand reached out for the bottle, and he surrendered it. She gulped greedily, draining the bottle, and tossed it carelessly on the floor. It rolled to one side of the room and rested under a chair. “Do you really think you can possibly miss him as much as I do?” the apparition slurred. </p><p>“Yes,” was all he said in reply. </p><p>Her tone was cruel. “You don’t even know what you’re missing! You never felt his arms around you, his hard body pressing into yours. His big, rough hands all over your skin…” A strangled sob escaped John’s lips, and she paused, looking up at him. “Don’t you dare!” She grabbed his shirtfront in one small fist and spoke in a harsh whisper, just inches from his face. “Don’t you dare compare your grief to mine!” Then her hand fell away and she slumped to the floor. “It doesn’t matter. Do what you like. I can’t feel anything anymore.” </p><p>He considered leaving, finding some other room to darken with his misery. But the still-sane part of him knew he couldn’t be as open with anyone else but her. She, at least, knew how it felt to be so hollow you wanted to die. Could he ever feel joy again? Could he feel anything at all, other than this bottomless well of suffocating depression? He bent down, grabbed her by her forearms, and hauled her ungracefully to her feet. “If I have to endure this, then so do you. At least he loved you.” </p><p>A fire lit in her eyes. “Yes, yes he did. He loved me with every part of himself.” Her hands trailed down her shift, cupping her breasts and smoothing over her hips. “There is no part of me that he didn’t touch.” </p><p>John suddenly seized her by the shoulders and mashed his lips against hers. This is the mouth that he kissed, he thought. His hands moved behind her. This is the ass that he squeezed. Somehow, touching her was like touching him. He pulled his mouth away and whispered, “I want to go where he did.” </p><p>“Then do it.” She clutched at his back, ripping at the fabric that covered it. </p><p>He pulled the shirt off over his head, tore open his breeches with one hand, and picked her up, one arm around her shoulders and one arm under her bottom. He staggered drunkenly to the bed and tossed her down. The shift was riding up around her thighs. He pulled it up higher, exposing the dark hair between her legs. Jamie’s wife, he thought to himself. My wife… my Jamie… His hands pushed her thighs apart and she didn’t resist. She grabbed his waist and pulled him toward her. His fingers fumbled for her opening and she spread her legs wider. Her hand was around his pulsing cock now, guiding him. An image of a naked Jamie, glistening with sweat, his red hair curling at the base of his neck, leapt into John’s mind as he entered her. She had seen him in all his glory, felt him fill her to her core. Oh God, what John wouldn’t have done to have been in her place. </p><p>She was pushing on his backside now, urging him on. He thrust harder, faster, thinking of Jamie, hearing his voice murmuring Gaelic endearments, but it was no use. She was still a woman. This wasn’t how he’d imagined making love to Jamie would feel. He felt his erection start to fade. “No!” he shouted aloud. Startled, she stopped moving, and he took the opportunity to grab her shoulders and turn her roughly around. </p><p>Claire squirmed on the mattress, tilting her hips eagerly toward him. Yes, she thought. Use me. Make me feel. Do it. Do something. He spread her buttocks apart and leaned forward, teasing her anus with his tongue. She was panting now, silently begging. Jamie had only fucked her that way a handful of times and had always apologized afterward, but she had loved it every time. “Yes, yes!” </p><p>In the darkened room and in his inebriated state, it was not hard for John to pretend. He tried to be careful, to go slow, as he would have done with Jamie. They both groaned in minor agony as he filled her, happy to feel something again. After a minute, the pain turned to pleasure. Her dark curls became auburn and her slender back broadened. Let me show you how much I love you, he told this new lover, in his mind. Slick with sweat now, he slid in and out of the tight embrace, lost in his fantasy. “I love you,” he said, and it came out as a moan and mingled with a grunt from the body beneath him. He felt the tears slip down his cheeks as he came, and he ached to say his name. </p><p>“Jamie,” Claire whispered. </p><p>John fell asleep with Claire in his arms, his long body curled protectively around her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Morning After: Take One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An imagined alternate "morning after" John and Claire's grief-stricken coupling. This one is unfortunately not so friendly.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have written two alternative "morning afters"--this is the first and the next chapter will be the second.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Claire opened her eyes slowly, squinting against the bright sunlight that streamed into the bedroom through a crack in the shutters. She hadn’t bothered to draw the drapes last night. Last night. Oh, shit. She turned onto her side and there he was, Lord John. Her new husband. The sheet was balled up at his feet and he was naked, huddled almost in a fetal position and facing away from her, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed. She studied the lean muscles, the deep chocolate-coloured body hair, the stray wisps of longer hair that lay across his face. His expression was peaceful for the first time in days. She pulled the sheet up to cover her own nakedness, and he stirred.</p><p>John brushed the hair out of his eyes before he opened them. His head ached with the same dull throb he’d awoken with every day since he’d heard that Jamie had drowned. No matter—he’d soon fix it, as he’d done every other day, by getting drunk again as soon as possible. He tried to focus his mind as he looked at the scene before him. Bottle and miscellaneous clothing on the floor. This was not his room. Oh, God. He turned over. </p><p>“Claire.” </p><p>She was staring at him. “John.” Her voice was strangely cold. </p><p>Feeling exposed, he reached for the edge of the sheet that she was clutching nervously to her chest. She allowed him to pull just enough of it over himself that he could feel comfortable addressing her again. “Claire, I…” His fingers rubbed at a spot above the bridge of his nose. “I beg your pardon. I’m afraid I was not…very gentlemanly last night.” </p><p>Claire snorted. “You most certainly were not!” </p><p>His blue eyes danced with concern. “Are you… quite all right?” </p><p>She lowered her eyes to the mattress. “If you mean physically, yes, I’ll live. But I don’t know if I can deal with… what we did.” </p><p>John raised himself on one elbow, resting his sore head in his hand. “Why ever not? We are married, after all, my dear.”</p><p>Her dark eyes flashed. “I’m well aware of that ridiculous fact!” </p><p>He felt her words like a punch to the gut. “Ridiculous?”</p><p>“Well, come on! You have to admit, any woman being married to you is a bit… pointless.” </p><p>John swallowed. She was angry. He tried to think why, to be patient with her. She had probably woken up wishing he was Jamie. Wishing John himself had been the one who’d died, and that Jamie was here now, safe in her bed. She was merely taking her pain out on him. Very well, then. He’d suffered worse sacrifices. “Yes, I suppose you are right.” He forced a smile. “In any case, I would like to offer my sincerest apologies if anything I did last night was…not to your liking.” </p><p>She reached beside the bed, found her shift, and, turning her back to John, pulled it on quickly. “No, you…it was fine. I’m just a little embarrassed about the whole thing.”</p><p>His warm tolerance was quickly freezing to ice. “Embarrassed?” </p><p>“Are you going to repeat my words all morning? Yes, embarrassed! It’s not every night that I have sex with a…a…”</p><p>In an angry flourish of covers, John sprung up out of bed and began picking his clothes off the floor. He dressed hastily, turning his face to the mirror not so much to assist in the dressing as to hide the flush of red steadily creeping up his neck and cheeks. </p><p>He turned back briefly on his way out of the room. “As I said, madam, I do apologize for imposing on you. It will not happen again.” </p><p>He closed the door softly behind him and leaned against it, fighting down the tears that threatened to burn his bloodshot eyes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Morning After: Take Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A second alternate version of the morning after: nicer this time!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tell me which version you prefer!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Claire opened her eyes slowly, squinting against the bright sunlight that streamed into the bedroom through a crack in the shutters. She hadn’t bothered to draw the drapes last night. Last night, when she’d been so heartbroken that she hadn’t cared if she ever waked again. She turned onto her side and studied him—Lord John. Her new husband. The sheet was balled up at his feet and he was naked, huddled almost in a fetal position and facing away from her, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed. She studied the lean muscles, the deep chocolate-coloured body hair, the stray wisps of longer hair that lay across his face. His expression was peaceful for the first time in days. She pulled the sheet up to cover her own nakedness, and he stirred.</p><p>John brushed the hair out of his eyes before he opened them. His head ached with the same dull throb he’d awoken with every day since he’d heard that Jamie had drowned. No matter—he’d soon fix it, as he’d done every other day, by getting drunk again as soon as possible. He tried to focus his mind as he looked at the scene before him. Bottle and miscellaneous clothing on the floor. This was not his room. Oh, God. He turned over. </p><p>“Claire.” His voice matched the concern in his bloodshot blue eyes. </p><p>She was looking at him with… tenderness? “John. Good morning.” She didn’t smile, but she reached a hand to his chest and rested it there. </p><p>He picked it up and kissed it, feeling immense relief. “How are you, my dear?” he asked. </p><p>She sighed heavily. “My head hurts. And my heart. And yet, I feel… just a tiny bit better today.” She forced a smile. “Thank you.”</p><p>He shuffled closer to her on the mattress, still holding her hand. “For what?” </p><p>She looked away, suddenly shy. “Just for… being there, with me. For not leaving me alone last night.” </p><p>“Perhaps I should have.” He tried to meet her eyes. “I was being selfish. Please forgive me.”</p><p>She tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “There’s nothing to forgive. Neither of us could have gotten through the night alone. I’m glad we didn’t have to.”</p><p>He gathered her in his arms. Her body was warm from sleep. “You will never be alone again, my dear. I promise you.”</p><p>Claire laid her head on his chest. He felt the hot dampness of her tears against his skin and held her tighter, whispering. “I know I am not him. I can’t be to you what he was. Despite what happened last night, I don’t believe either of us would be satisfied. But I can and will protect you, and love you. As though you were my own.” </p><p>I will do my duty by you, Jamie.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. That Night: Take Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An alternate version of what happened that night.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Although I am sure that D.G. meant to suggest something close to my original take on "that night," I couldn't help but wonder if it might have happened differently, so I decided to give John another chance to show his gentlemanly ways. Again, I'd be very interested in knowing which of these versions you, the reader, prefer!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I will not mourn him alone tonight.” </p><p>Lord John Grey was leaning in the doorway of Claire’s—his wife’s--bedroom. His voice was low and throaty. He wore only an untucked open-necked white shirt and breeches. His normally tidy hair was an unkempt mess and a dark stubble shaded the lower half of his face. In his hand was an open bottle of wine, which he now raised to his lips, taking a long pull and then wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Claire was sprawled on her bed. She had clearly been drinking too, he noticed in some dim corner of his brain. They were legally married, yet they seemed to be spending their days and nights apart, sequestered in their own rooms, suffering through their grief alone. He wanted—needed—to share his grief tonight. By the look of her, she did too. She moved slowly off the bed and came toward him, dressed only in a clinging shift. She had never allowed him to see her in anything but a full state of dress before. As she approached, he extended the bottle to her, and she took it gratefully. </p><p>“We’re both alone, now,” she slurred. Her knees were wobbling. He slid an arm around her waist to steady her, and she snuggled against him. This was unusual behaviour for her. He had thought they might commiserate, get drunk and reminisce about Jamie together, but perhaps she was too far gone. </p><p>“You’d better get back to bed, dear, before you fall down.” His voice was gentle as he helped her to the bed. He fluffed up the feather pillows for her and laid her down, pulling the covers up to her shoulders. He stood looking at her for a minute, not wanting to leave to be on his own again, but the nobler part of him won. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Sleep.” </p><p>As he turned to go, she grabbed his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. “John, don’t leave me.” Her eyes were closed but her voice was plaintive. </p><p>He sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “It’s all right. I won’t.” He smoothed the chestnut curls away from her face and silently cursed himself for his self-centredness. Yes, he had lost the man he’d loved, but she had lost the man she’d shared her life—and her body—with. He couldn’t possibly understand her pain. “Forgive me, Claire,” he whispered. </p><p>“Mmm?” </p><p>“Sshh, nothing. Sleep now, my dear. I’m here.” He sat, listening to her shallow breathing, staring at the shadows the candle flame cast on the wall. After what felt like a long time, he studied her face again and, seeing that her eyes were still closed, stood up to go. </p><p>Her eyelids flew open. “You said you wouldn’t leave me! Come back.” Her voice was desperate. She hadn’t been sleeping then. More likely ruminating on the same dark thoughts she’d been contemplating for days. He knew she’d considered ending her own life—he knew it because he would have considered the same, were he not responsible for the protection of so many others. He returned to her side and she tugged at his sleeve. “Lie down with me.” </p><p>In the darkness, she couldn’t see the questioning arch of his eyebrow. He assumed, however, that she was merely being literal, and so he stretched himself out beside her. He felt an urge to touch her, and he knew she needed some kind of human contact, too. He draped an arm around her, hoping to console them both. </p><p>“Will you make love to me, John?” she asked.</p><p>Startled to his core, he looked into her eyes, but said nothing.  </p><p>She stared back. “Can you?” </p><p>He blinked. He couldn’t stand the rawness of her gaze—it seemed to look into his soul. To avoid it, he pulled her close and hugged her. “Yes, if you wish it. I could do that… for you.” </p><p>She pulled away from his embrace and touched his face with her hand. He could see a trail of tears on her cheek. She whispered, “Please,” and clumsily drew her shift off over her head. </p><p>He undressed slowly, giving her time to change her mind. She was in no state to be making rash decisions, but then she was his wife, after all. Was it really that rash? She kept her eyes discreetly off him for the most part, but when he poured his taut, lanky figure into the bed beside her, she swept his body with a lingering glance. He didn’t mind. He leaned over and kissed her, very softly, on the lips. “Are you sure?” </p><p>“Quite sure. I need… I need you tonight.” </p><p>He didn’t think it was really him she needed, but if he might be able to contribute to her happiness in any way, bring her out of her depression, then he was willing to try. He had made a solemn promise to Jamie, as soon as he’d heard of his death. I will take care of her, he’d said to his reflection in the mirror. I will look after them both as though they are my own, until the day I die. Jamie was not there to comfort his wife, nor to please her. John Grey must be his avatar. </p><p>He kissed her again, his plump, pink lips barely touching hers. His fingers traced her cheekbones like a sculptor admiring his art. She sighed and parted her lips for him, felt a small thrill of excitement when his tongue found its way to her mouth. Then his soft kisses made a path down her throat to her chest, and his hands lightly caressed her breasts. Jamie had never been this gentle--she hadn’t wanted him to be. But somehow, this feathery, ghostly touch was exactly what she needed right now. A hazy memory jumped into her brain: Master Raymond’s healing hands, hovering just around her body, filling her with a sense of peace. </p><p>John flicked his tongue over Claire’s left nipple. It was something Percy had always wanted him to do. He teased her that way until she could handle it no more. Her steady doctor’s hand grabbed his and dragged it down between her thighs. He was not ignorant of the female form, but he wasn’t quite sure what to do. On the few occasions that Isobel had asked for him, he’d prioritized practicality over romance. Wetting a finger in his mouth, he wiggled it inside her as gently as he could, and was surprised when the action elicited a low moan. Emboldened, he searched for the spot that Harry Quarry had talked incessantly about. More moans came from Claire as his slippery fingertip found the secret nub. Then all of a sudden, she twisted away from him. “I am sorry—did I…?”</p><p>She shook her head. “Now. I want you now.” </p><p>John’s heart beat furiously, sobering him more than he would have liked. He took his half-flaccid cock in his hand and began to stroke himself in earnest, until another hand closed over his. “Let me,” she said. This was the hand that had held Jamie’s manhood. He felt himself grow hard under her touch. Then, quickly but tenderly, he brushed her hand away and entered her. She gasped. He moved slowly but steadily, being careful not to rest his weight on her thin frame. She pressed her hands to his back, and he wondered if she’d hoped to find it covered in ropey scars. “Oh God I miss him so much,” she sobbed, raising her hips to meet his. </p><p>His voice was a husky whisper. “I know, my dear, I know.” He was moving slower now, barely moving at all, just pressing deep inside her and pausing, like a shakily held breath. She wrapped her legs around him and sighed. In the flickering half-light, he could see her face, etched with sadness, go mercifully blank. “Use me,” he urged, and braced himself for whatever would come. Her hips jerked upward and she crushed his body against hers, grinding in deliberate circles as he stayed almost motionless. Finally, she clutched his backside with desperate fingers, holding him in place as she quivered and moaned, uttering at last a cry that was both faint and full, escaping unbidden from the buried depths of her anguished heart. When she stopped moving, John gave a final thrust, allowing his own release only now that she was satisfied. He moved off her hastily and lay beside her once again. His warm hand smoothed soothingly over her brow and he kissed her temple sweetly but did not speak. </p><p>“Thank you,” she said, and turned away from him. He moved a leg as if to rise but she reached a hand back, beckoning him forward, and curled herself against him. John folded his arms around her and lay awake for an hour, listening to her deep, rhythmic breaths.</p>
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